The silence in the room was chilling, suffocating stillness of a tomb after a disaster. The air still carried the heavy, cloying scent of dried blood from the tiny cut near the intern's underbelly. Malcolm Ford stood by the window, his large frame trembling as he stared at his own hands, his mind struggling to comprehend the sheer, unadulterated madness that had almost overtaken him.
He was the King of Deviloy. He was a man whose entire existence was built on the cold, unyielding foundation of tradition, legacy, and order. And yet, he had nearly crossed a line that would have destroyed every principle he stood for—nearly consumed by an intern who seemed to drift between fragility and a terrifying, seductive fire.
Malcolm turned around, his amber eyes completely devoid of the golden madness from moments before, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp fury directed entirely at the figure on the bed.
